The Case of the Shattered Image
by Wickfield
Summary: When a young artist's work is destroyed, Holmes is called upon to find the criminal - yet there seems to be an unexpected motive lurking beneath the surface. Wrote this when I was 15, so please critique! COMPLETED 9/26!
1. Part 1

_Okay, so this is another of my old stories - I wrote this when I was 15 (in 2007) for my father, as he was reading all the Holmes short stories at the time. This was an attempt at pastiche, but I've since learned there's a certain formula to Holmes stories (and I also probably made Holmes dumber than he'd really be, but remember, this all came out of the brain of a 15-year-old ;D). Anyway, I'd really appreciate some constructive critique on how I could make this more Holmesian, thanks! And enjoy it in its current state!_

**Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Shattered Image**

**Part 1**

On the frigid November days of London, when the wind and rain whipped down the alleys and a pale sunlight shone through the windows of our apartments, it was the habit of my friend and companion, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, to take a large pot of coffee, his violin, and his latest puzzling problem, and shut himself into his bedroom. At first I took no objection to this activity; I thought I could go in and observe his habits, or help him with his case any time at which I pleased, but after repeatedly stepping in and being coldly turned out, I soon realised that I was not really welcome under these circumstances, and that I must find some way to amuse myself. It was not _too _difficult at first – due to his eccentric studies, my companion had a massive library and I employed myself by reading all the volumes that were new to me. After finishing this practice, I moved on to inspecting the local newspapers, which though dull at least contained the latest medical discoveries. But soon even the papers began to disappear into Holmes's quarters, where he would study the unsolved crime cases then sort them in his files, and I found myself rambling about the apartment, rather piqued and desperately seeking something to do.

It was on one of these same days that I was stretched on the settee in a state of complete _ennui_, struggling with the decision to take a nap or to find something to eat, when I heard an anxious tap at the door. I must admit, ashamed as I am, that I was very thrilled – visitors were quite scarce at this time of year – and after hastily checking my appearance in the glass I practically threw open the door.

It was a young lady who stood on the step, fretfully scrutinizing a scrap of paper in her hand, which on my further inspection I observed to be our address. She started when she saw me. "Is this the home of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" she inquired.

"Yes, certainly, do come in," I said eagerly, carefully ushering her through the hall and up the short flight of stairs to our sitting room. She settled herself on a chair by the fireplace, and when I finally returned to a state of dignified normalcy, I realised just how worried she really looked. Often our lady clients would come in sobbing or at least wringing their hands, many with hair prematurely shot with gray, or a thick black veil covering their face; they would appear in a most extreme state of agitation and practically beg "the good Mr. Holmes" to help them. This girl, however, looked quite composed, dressed in a simple daysuit and kid gloves, but her face was very pale, and her eyes conveyed a strong sense of uneasiness, which is never happy to see on a young lady.

"Is Mr. Holmes in at the moment?" she asked presently after I had stood dumbly for a few minutes.

"Oh, yes," I started quickly. The notes of a violin flowed down the stairs. "Do you hear that music? That is him playing. He is most cunning at the violin," I rambled.

"Is that so?" The girl somehow looked relieved. "I wouldn't think of a detective having musical talent, but it is rather comforting; my father, a professor, used to play the viola. In fact that is how I got my name: Viola Burgess."

"Well Miss Burgess," I said kindly, "I will make sure Mr. Holmes comes down right this instant, and we will see if your problem can be cleared up."

As I climbed the stairs I felt rather apprehensive. One of Holmes' dry looks is not at all comfortable. But upon the landing I noticed his door was cracked, and a thick cloud of tobacco smoke was slowly drifting into the hallway. I rapped at the door anyway.

"Come in, Doctor," I heard through the dense smoke and the violin. Sherlock Holmes turned as I entered the room. "Now then, old fellow, are you really all that frightened of me?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"It is all very obvious. You climb the stairs slowly, then halt at the door, as if hesitant. Then you knock. Does it not seem strange?"

"I was not sure I was wanted," I said stiffly.

"Ha! You are certainly strange. I have a question, old fellow, and I think you are just the one to help me solve it." Coughing, I found my way to Holmes who, pipe in mouth, was standing by the fire straining at his instrument.

"I never will understand why you insist upon such thick smoke when you study," I choked. But he never took any heed whenever I voiced my opinion on that matter.

"Watson," he said, removing the pipe at my arrival, "have you ever read Plato's "Oration on Fear" from _The Gorgias_?"

"Yes, it was required at university," I answered briefly, anxious to get my friend downstairs.

"Well in it, Socrates mentioned moral evil as being the only real evil, and that poverty, sickness, death, etc., which are inflicted upon us by man, should not be feared. But I ask you Watson, is that truly possible? If it is I should love to know how it is accomplished, because I feel that if only we were able to master those emotions our society would be most highly improved. I assume you know something of the matter." He looked at me expectantly with his keen gray eyes, stroking his violin.

"Perhaps I can discuss it sometime in the future, but there is a young lady downstairs who seeks help with some crime."

"Oh, yes. The young lady at the street corner."

"What?"

Holmes adjusted his violin and explained, "I observed, while looking out of our window, a young lady on the corner of the street. She is apparently new to these parts, or at least has never been on Baker Street, and at first she imagined she was lost."

"How could you tell?"

"She kept referring to a newspaper clipping she held in her hand, which I assume is our address, and peering up at the house numbers. She was afraid she would miss our house."

"Did you notice anything else?"

"Yes," he said, lowering his voice, "she was rather…underprivileged. You can always tell by the clothes. Probably an artist as well, as the colours she puts together, though complimentary, are not the fashionable match, and her skirt is draped in the same loose manner as the ladies from Winchester Park. I also determined that she is, like myself, a late riser."

"And how do you figure that?"

"Why, by the unkempt appearance of her clothes and hair. You can tell she is not absentminded – she has both gloves, her hat is straight, and she has not forgotten her umbrella – but she still looks a bit disheveled, as I look when you wake me up at any time before eight."

"At any rate," I said, a bit muddled, "she looks to be awfully concerned. Perhaps you ought to come downstairs now?"

Holmes laid down his violin with a hugely disparaging look. "If this is another case in which an emerald ring is stolen from a girl's dressing table, and the young lady thinks her sister has stolen it to give to her lover, who is "probably" on the run in Asia, but really the child has misplaced it in her sewing box, then you can please to send her away." He replaced the pipe and put the instrument to his chin.

"Oh no," I said hurriedly, blushing at the week-old case of trivia to which he was referring.

"Not to say it was _your_ fault, my dear Watson," Holmes reassured me with the same seemingly uninterested face he usually wore. "But it is always good to take note of a client's facial expression. It is generally not an urgent event if the young lady does not seem too upset. Or if she is _smiling_." Holmes, eyes sparking mischievously, placed an unnecessary amount of emphasis on that last word, making my face burn.

"Miss Burgess seems quite upset. Upon my word, Holmes, I think this case will most likely interest you."

"If not, Watson, I shall hold you entirely responsible," he said carelessly. "Hold my coat for me, will you? I might smell like so much tobacco but I can at least appear presentable to my clients."

Holmes tripped down the stairs ahead of me, absently buttoning his jacket. As I have mentioned before, my friend had the amazing ability to detach himself from whatever he had been working on previously, so I am sure Plato and Socrates were completely forgotten by the time he seated himself in the chair opposite Miss Burgess'.

"My dear lady," said my friend without delay, "my name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my assistant and confidante Dr. John Watson and he, as well as I, will hold your case in deepest seriousness and regard."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Miss Burgess said, reassured.

"Now then, what pressing case brings you from Bristol to my front step?" Holmes asked; if it were a gentleman instead of a lady, he would have lit his pipe at this point. Meanwhile, Miss Burgess looked a bit taken aback.

"You can tell I am from Bristol?"

"Most certainly," Holmes nodded.

"I have been living in London for two years now," Miss Burgess said reflectively. "I thought my accent was almost gone."

"Almost gone to others, possibly, but not to the trained ear. Your accent on certain syllables is very unique, set apart from London pronunciation by a Welsh influence, as Bristol is, as you well know, near Wales. I feel sure that if you were to say "Shibboleth" you would say it quite differently than myself."

"I probably would," Miss Burgess laughed nervously.

"I am sorry to interrupt, do continue."

"Yes. I must begin in Bristol, where I come from, as you noted. Two years ago, when I was but eighteen, my family and I, being of an artistic turn, determined that I must go to London, where I would have a greater chance of proving myself as a – "

"Sculptor," Holmes finished.

"Now how did you know that?" I stifled a laugh at Miss Burgess' clear astonishment.

"It is so simple, especially since you already confirmed my conjecture that you are indeed an artist, that it is almost cheating. You see, I have been observing your hands ever since you removed your gloves. There is no great distinguishing mark on either the third or fourth finger on your right or left hand. If you were a painter, you would have a bump from holding the paintbrush; the same would be caused from charcoal drawing. And you are obviously not a poker sketcher, as even the most experienced of their class still have burns from time to time, and I see none on your hands. The marks of a sculptor, however, are quite clear, as your nails are cut short. Unless I am very much mistaken, short nails are not "the style", but they would be necessity for one who works with clay, so as not to gouge nailmarks in the piece."

"Thank heaven, I am now certain I have come to the right man! You are completely correct!" she pronounced.

"Was there ever any doubt?" I asked. Holmes ignored my praise, as usual, and nodded for her to continue.

"As I said before," she went on, "no one can be discovered in a fishing town, to be sure. A residence in London was my greatest chance to become recognised as an artist. My father has a professor friend who lives not far from here, but being a young girl of only eighteen, we did not think it safe enough for me to live alone in a strange city, especially in my profession, because you know what some artists can be. Of course a twosome is always stronger than one, and I soon persuaded my cousin, Miss Margaret Ainsley, into sharing the rent of a small London apartment.

"We two could not have been happier, living quite easily together, but we have always been close as sisters. She too is an artist; she paints the most beautiful oil landscapes. With our small income – I also sculpt heads for porcelain dolls – and an allowance from our families, we got on quite well for these past two years.

"Recently, we heard of an art exhibition that seemed perfectly suited to us, and we were completely qualified to enter. Being part of a ring of artists, you always catch wind of these sort of things, but this event seemed even more important than usual. I was working on a clay bust, and my cousin was working on her best painting yet. She deemed it her masterpiece, and was quite eager to submit it to the art exhibition. We both suspected art dealers would be there and…well, an artist always wants to be discovered.

"At the beginning of last week, I left Margaret alone in the apartment to visit my family in Bristol. My father had just got news he was to receive an award for teaching; and I was already a bit homesick, eager to relate the good news, seek advice concerning my sculptures, and visit with my country friends. Three days ago, on Friday, I caught the next train back to London. Before going home, I went shopping at my favourite store, which is near the train station. Around three o' clock I returned to the apartment. I knocked and then let myself in, because nobody came to the door and I assumed Margaret must be out. Imagine my surprise then, Mr. Holmes, when I opened the door, struggling among all my parcels and luggage, to find my dear cousin sobbing in her chair by the fire!"

Holmes looked bored, and I was embarrassed by his seeming callousness. "If it is not too difficult," he remarked, "do continue."

"Certainly. I ran to her immediately and hugged her, begging her to tell me what was wrong, but she was quite hysterical, and I ended up shaking her all over. Still she was not responsive. Then I became frightened, and wondered if someone was in the house, so I rushed to the bedrooms, but after a thorough search, no one was to be seen anywhere. I was much distressed and very confused, when finally I came to the kitchen to get some water for my cousin. It was there I found the source of her grief.

"In the kitchen there is a table where we cut our vegetables, being too poor to have a maid. It was on this table that I saw at first one of our knives and then – " Miss Burgess swallowed, "I saw, removed from its storage box, my cousin's lovely painting, her masterpiece, the one she was going to enter in the art exhibition, slashed to pieces. Jagged holes were cut through the canvas to the wooden backboard, which was also smashed; the beautiful outdoor scene was marred as if by some wild animal. The knife that caused the damage was directly to the right of the image, and I did not touch it, because I knew my fingerprints could incriminate me. Mr. Holmes," she pleaded, "a true artist toils long and hard over their work; they take their bright colours and soft clay as seriously as you treat your fingerprints and clues. By the time an artist is finished with a piece, they have become a part of it. To an artist it is truly devastating to see their work destroyed at the hands of others. It is unthinkable for an artist to do it herself. That is why I am immensely concerned with my cousin. You must find the reason she would do such a thing, otherwise I shall surely fret myself to death."

Holmes pressed his fingertips together. If you didn't know him as well as I did, you might almost think he was bored with the conversation. But he was obviously deep in thought. "Miss Burgess, where is your cousin now? Certainly you did not leave her alone?"

"No! Never. Margaret is, in fact, in hospital. I didn't know what to do for her; she never answered me, never explained herself. I simply couldn't help her. She appears to me, in a way, insane, but they tell me she will soon recover. She'll be there for a few weeks yet. Mr. Lawrence, my father's friend, is staying with her as we speak."

I was glad to know our young clients had such a faithful chaperon on their side. Miss Burgess obviously held him in veneration; in the meantime I was assured they would be safe in our absence, and also in the free-thinking artistic circles.

"And you say you were at your home in Bristol?" Holmes continued. "Do you have proof – ticket stubs, receipts?"

"Please, Mr. Holmes, don't accuse me," she mourned.

"I am not accusing you, I merely need to know the facts, and remember, anyone who knew Miss Ainsley is immediately incriminated."

"Well you can ask my mother and father about going to Bristol and I have a receipt from the hatter's. I think I disposed of my ticket."

"Now then," Holmes said, moving rapidly and systematically through the points, "you say you did not touch the knife? I will only find your cousin's prints, am I correct?"

"I think so."

Holmes stared into the fire for a moment, sealing the facts in his indomitable mind, and presently announced, "Then I believe this afternoon will be an opportune time to examine the premises. May I have the address?"

"Of course – I live in the room to the right, on the second floor in the brick apartment at 345 Winchester Park, not too far from here. I'm sure you are familiar with the area?"

"Yes, my dear Watson used to work in the doctor's office down the street. We shall plan a _rendezvous_, so to speak, at three o'clock," Holmes informed her. "I assume you have no further engagements; I should hate to be an intrusion?"

"An intrusion? Nonsense!" Miss Burgess seemed indignant. "The sooner we solve the mystery, the sooner I can rest entirely satisfied. Oh, Mr. Holmes, you were just the man I was looking for!"

"Thank you," Holmes said modestly. "You have been very helpful yourself. Three o'clock at Winchester Park? I am sure your problem will be solved before the day is out!"

Miss Viola Burgess' mood seemed to be at least a little lightened by the conversation; she expressed a weak, yet contented smile as she gathered her gloves and umbrella and took leave.

"Poor thing," I said, addressing Holmes as I closed the door behind her. "What would cause her cousin to so violently tear up a painting, do you think?"

"Now Watson, this really is foolishness," my friend informed me as he lit his pipe. "You know as well as I that there's really not enough information to go by yet. The _single_, most dangerous thing in the business of crime-solving is to form a hypothesis without sufficient data. Imagine if you, as a doctor, were to diagnose an illness without having heard all the symptoms. Invariably, the wrong prognosis would be administered and things would go wrong from the start."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," I said musingly.

"I didn't think you had," he agreed. "I'm sure you will think it one of these days. But I do know, thanks to my various readings of psychology, that the time right before a great event _is_ the most trying on the mind. Perhaps Miss Ainsley suddenly "realised" her painting was poor or some such nonsense and could not "tolerate" it any longer, venting her frustration on the piece. Then again, in such murky crimes as these secret motives or third parties are often revealed, which makes the chase so much more interesting. At any rate, we shan't remain in the dark long, dear fellow. Three o'clock is fast approaching."


	2. Part 2

**Part 2**

Three o'clock soon arrived, bringing with it a dense fog and sharp, bitingly cold rain. Even though Winchester Park was a mere one-mile walk from Baker Street, we ordered a cab. "No sense in catching cold, right Doctor?" Holmes quipped as he shut up his umbrella and climbed into the cab after me. Though not a shady part of town by any means, the Winchester Park area was still considered by most to be the unofficial territory of the Bohemian set. Thickly inhabited by poor young artists come to seek their fortune, the apartment houses were, consequently, not well kept-up and slightly decrepit, and high society was rarely seen among the streets. I suppose Sherlock Holmes and I were judged as a part of the high class, but Holmes himself was also somewhat Bohemian, preferring his own habits and solitude to distinguished company, so we had no qualms in respect to the neighbourhood.

345 Winchester was a tall building made of brick, though so much ivy covered the walls it almost seemed it was one of the building materials as well. The plant had mostly wilted from the winter weather, and its shrunken brown stems gave a shockingly dead look to the house. I felt rather sorry for our young clients who had spent two years within the old withered walls.

"345, this is it then," Holmes said, after quickly locating the house number. "I am no artist as you quite frequently tell me, but this does not seem the most creative atmosphere, does it?" Lifting the scrolled knocker shaped from long-tarnished gold, he gave two heavy knocks. A harsh looking woman answered. She must have been the landlady.

"We have come to call on Miss Viola Burgess, second floor," Holmes bluntly informed the woman.

"No male vis'tors," the landlady informed Holmes, preparing to shut the door.

"I am a private detective, come to investigate a personal crime," Holmes told her. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, perhaps you have heard of me?"

She studied his face for a moment and Holmes, it appeared, seemed to be studying her. Finally she came to a conclusion. "Have I seen you in the paper then? You're that chap o'er on Baker Street, what? I _guess_ you can come in, but you must leave the door open."

"Certainly! I am not just a detective, madam, I am also a gentleman. Come Watson, we don't want to be standing here taking up time. Good day!" He rolled his eyes as he sidled past her.

The landlady let us feel our own way through the corridor. Damp and dark, the walls were streaked with black where gaslights had long left their mark. It seemed there was a good deal of activity going on in the place – we could hear voices all down the hall and the rooms, doors shutting on both sides of us and overhead. We plodded over an old, stale plush rug until we came to a stairwell, which was not in much better condition. Holmes went up ahead of me, placing both feet on the first few steps to test the soundness. He rocked up and down a bit on the third. "Yes, I think it's safe."

"It must be," I said. "Miss Burgess comes up every day."

"What a shrewd observation! And here I am rocking on the stairs like a child, wasting time. I hope you do not think me foolish, Watson?"

I just shook my head.

Miss Burgess' had said her room was on the right, so Holmes gave a brisk three raps. The door opened, and our client's pale face peered out. She brightened when she saw us. "How punctual you are! Do come in, I was just finishing preparing tea."

"Thank you for such remarkable hospitality, but we are here strictly for business, Miss Burgess; I said I would not be an intrusion, and I am a man of my word. Watson, leave the door open further. That's better." Holmes nodded at the arrangement of the door, then began to go over facts again as I studied the apartment. It was a much more cheery place than the rest of the building, and not only could you tell it was a woman's residence, but also that of an artist. The walls, though rather dingy from the smoky, stopped-up fireplace, were scrubbed nice and clean, with several of the famed oil landscapes covering shredded parts of the wallpaper. The rug was an intricate Oriental which, though somewhat battered, was well dusted, and added a complement to the sturdy painted furniture. There were two large windows looking out on the street below, which would have afforded a lovely view of the ivy in the summer, and although the windows were hung with a light flowered cotton instead of the more expensive chintz, they were so artistically draped that it was nearly impossible to tell the difference. Still though, with all the innocent, simple beauty of the room, it gave such a strong contrast with the building, the neighbourhood, and the goings on within, that it was all rather weird.

"Now then," Holmes said abruptly, "this is the kitchen, I suppose?"

"Yes."

Holmes led the way to the small area designated for cooking, and there I saw an austere wooden table and not much more. What was spread out upon it, however, was a terrible thing to see.

It was, as Miss Burgess had described, a large two-by-three foot canvas, stroked all over with bright, vivid oil colours. I could see the masterly potential. But it was so mangled, so utterly destroyed, it seemed as if the lovely scene had gone through some natural disaster. Holmes lifted up one of the battered corners, causing the whole piece to sag wearily. He examined it with a long, low whistle.

"This does seem abnormal," he admitted quietly, stroking his chin. "Please forgive my implications, but was your cousin of an eccentric or excitable demeanor?"

"Oh, no. Being raised together, she was much like myself. That is what makes it all the more horrible."

"And puzzling. Hmph. This is the knife?" My friend always carried with him a magnifying lens, and he now ran it over the knife which he held in his hand. From his waistcoat pocket he

withdrew a packet of white powder, talc, which I had seen him use before, and lightly dusted the thing.

"What is he doing?" Miss Burgess asked me quietly, as if she were afraid to disturb him.

"He is looking for fingerprints. He will take a sample of each one he finds, then he will go to test your cousin, as she had no criminal record. If they are all your cousin's, then he will know it

was she who used the knife." Miss Burgess looked solemn.

After performing several observant duties, and taking record of the fingerprints, Holmes turned to Miss Burgess. "Now then, is there any instrument which Miss Ainsley has for her own personal use? Something you have never touched?"

Miss Burgess thought for a moment. "There might be a few of my "prints", but you can examine her washing pitcher. I have my own, so there will mostly be her marks on it."

"Brilliant! You would make an excellent detective if you were not an artist."

"Thank you, I shall keep that in mind," she said wryly as she went to retrieve the pitcher.

Holmes ran his all-devouring eye over the apartment in her absence, taking note of the curtained windows, the rugs, the infamous rocking chair by the fire. He found a closet door and audaciously opened it.

"Holmes," I said, glancing around quickly. "That looks very rude! Why, what are those?"

"These," said Holmes, gazing at them, "are the sculpted doll heads." Up on a high shelf in the large closet were twenty or thirty doll heads, all perfectly shaped, mostly the same size, some even painted. They stared out of their empty eye sockets with a look that made me shudder. "Shut the door," I commanded. Holmes had to stand on his toes to take one down and study its delicate features. "Amazing work." He closed the door and went on to make a survey of the shelves, which he suddenly noticed and stopped. He walked over to the ebony-wood bookcase, where I followed.

"Watson, do you see that?"

"I see nothing."

"For heaven's sake, Watson, be thorough!" I gave the bookcase another look. In the thin layer of dust that had settled over the last few days, there was the lightest outline of a solid square. It was so faint I wondered how he had noticed it.

"Something has changed with this arrangement, quite recently," he said, carefully tracing the square with a long finger. He turned when he heard Miss Burgess' footsteps behind him.

"I brought the pitcher," she said, a large piece of cloth wrapped around it. "I used this washtowel, so I wouldn't get anything on it."

"Another admirable decision, Miss Burgess. But first I must ask, what used to be on the bookshelf right here?" Holmes motioned to the square in the dust. Miss Burgess visibly reddened.

"I haven't had a chance to do the dusting," she said, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, but with all the excitement – "

"The dust does not matter," Holmes said dismissively. "In fact, it was helpful. Any difference that has occurred in the past few days is of utmost importance. But what was _in_ the dust? That is what matters."

"The clay bust I told you about. I had placed it on the bookshelf there before I sold it."

Holmes eyes grew large and he cast a quick glance at me. "You attended the art exhibition? While your cousin was in hospital?"

"Yes," Miss Burgess said slowly, looking from me to Holmes and back again. Though she was not much younger than we were, she looked like a guilty child. "Was that bad?"

"It's not…_bad_, but Miss Burgess, it _is _suspicious," Holmes told her seriously.

"W-why is it suspicious?" she stammered. "I told you, I was in Bristol at the time. I have receipts, and my family can vouch for me."

"I shall have to look into this further," Holmes said, more to himself than anyone. But I knew what my friend was thinking: had Miss Burgess thwarted her cousin's plans by destroying her painting? And if so, why? Was she afraid Margaret Ainsley's work was better? It was these questions we were pondering when we heard two heavy knocks on the front door.

"Who on earth could this be?" Miss Burgess' anxious look returned as she swept her hand over her hair and hurried to answer the caller.

Sherlock Holmes turned to me. "You see, Watson, I already had a bit of a suspicion about Miss Burgess. The knife used to destroy the picture was a household kitchen utensil used by both ladies. The fingerprints will, most likely, belong to both, and it is possible this instrument was chosen on purpose for that very reason." He looked dreadfully grave when Miss Burgess returned.

"It was a package," she announced with a sigh, setting the paper-wrapped box on the kitchen table. "I had hoped it was Mr. Lawrence with the allowance cheque, but it is only the hat I ordered."

"You may go ahead and open it if you like," Holmes said as we headed to get our coats. "Don't mind us, we are going to return to our flat and conduct a study. In the interim, I would like for you to collect your receipts and any other information that might be useful." Holmes was pulling on his coat and I was engaged in the unnecessary practice of wiping raindrops off my umbrella when suddenly we heard a little cry from the kitchen. Holmes heard it first, and was already bounding off in that direction, myself close at his heels.

What we found was Miss Viola Burgess, with a knife in her hand, hovering over the parcel in speechless disbelief. We peered into the box.

"Good heavens, Holmes," I gasped. "What is all this?"

The paper had been removed and the strings cut from the cardboard box. Inside was not a hat, as Miss Burgess had said – there were no ribbons or flowers to be seen anywhere; nothing but a horrible, smashed wreckage of glossy white clay. I picked up one of the larger pieces and held it up to Holmes.

"It is my sculpture," Miss Burgess said in a quiet, trembling voice.

Holmes examined the shard of clay as I stared at Miss Burgess. Usually at this point, the normal ladies burst into tears, screamed, or clung to any gentleman present, sobbing in a heartbroken manner. However, as I mentioned before, Miss Burgess was different; she only stared at the shattered image, gripped the table until her knuckles were white, and swayed where she stood.

"She's going to drop," Holmes cried, and in one swift move caught her neatly before she hit the rug. "Quick Watson, help me carry her. She's in a shock." We carried the poor young lady to the couch in the parlour and quickly arranged the pillows beneath her head.

"Is she all right, Dr. Watson?" Holmes asked, taking an alert assessment of her breathing.

"She will be, I think." I used my gloves to fan fresh air into her face, all the while cursing myself for forgetting the smelling salts.

"Holmes, tell me what happened?" I implored, busy at my task. Holmes had returned to the kitchen, sifting through the debris.

"There is nothing to tell," he called listlessly from the other room. "It is as Miss Burgess said – this pile of ruins is indeed her clay bust."

"But why is it destroyed?" I called back.

"Some cruel person has smashed it to pieces and heartlessly sent it back to her – Watson!"

"What?" I jumped.

"The first part of our mystery is solved!" Holmes marched over with a triumphant look on his face.

"What do you mean?" I took one last look at Miss Burgess and joined Holmes. "What is solved?"

"I know how Miss Ainsley's painting was destroyed – it was done for the same reason, whatever that may be, as Miss Burgess' bust was shattered."

"But what about that knife?" I asked. "It was right there by the painting, Holmes."

"So is this one." Holmes stooped and picked up the knife Miss Burgess had been holding when she fainted. "Miss Burgess used _this_ knife to open her package. She cut the strings with this, then tore open the package. If I am correct in my assumptions, there should be… ah-ha." Holmes had wandered across the room and was peering into the wastebasket. He pulled out the brown paper wrapping. "Just as I thought. Hmm, no return address."

"That is why the painting was in a cardboard box," I said, three steps behind but finally catching on. "It was the shipping box, not for storage."

"Precisely. These two ladies unwrapped their packages with a knife, threw away the paper, then went to open the boxes. Miss Ainsley found her slashed-up painting, Miss Burgess found her shattered clay bust. I daresay if we were to check the trash bins we would find the wrapping from the painting. Watson," he added, looking past my shoulder, "I think Miss Burgess is awakening."

There came a rustling from the old sofa, and Miss Burgess sat up shaking, with her hand to her forehead. "What happened?" she asked wearily.

"Get her some water, Watson," Holmes instructed, attending to the young lady. "Miss Burgess," he said slowly, "if you recall, your clay bust was broken."

Miss Burgess nodded, studying her hands to avoid looking up. "Yes, that's right. How silly I must have looked, fainting away…." Despite all efforts to conceal her emotion, her lip trembled. I returned with the water and she forced a few sips, but it wasn't long before she was holding her face in both hands, bitterly weeping for the thing she had lost. "I'm sorry," she said, scrubbing at her face with her handkerchief. "This is uncalled for, really."

"You have had quite a shock," I assured her, and Holmes nodded. She tried to smile, but down went her face into the wet kerchief again. Eventually she sat up, folded the handkerchief, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Apparently she was making an effort to appear strong and calm, which was admirable.

"Now, your sculpture was…broken," Holmes began tactfully, "but it is really a good thing, in a way."

"How is it a good thing?" Miss Burgess cried.

"Well you see, it has brought us one step closer to catching the criminal that destroyed your cousin's painting."

"Criminal?" Miss Burgess cast an astonished glance at us. "It-it wasn't Margaret who did it?"

"Oh, no. You see, the spoiling of your piece is directly related to that of Miss Ainsley's."

She sat still a moment, thinking everything through. "But Margaret wouldn't just hand her painting over to anyone, neither has she sold it, as I went over the account-books this morning. Who would possibly _do_ such a thing?" she cried eventually.

"Are you aware of any artistic rivals?" Holmes asked, clasping his hands together. "Someone who is jealous of your work?"

"None that I know of. All our friends are proud of us, and we of them. We are a team; I can't imagine anyone trying – "

"Jealousy is a strange thing, Miss Burgess; it sometimes reveals itself in terrible ways." My friend turned to me. "Watson, do you think Miss Burgess is steady enough to stay by herself?"

"Oh, I am, to be sure," she said readily. Holmes gave the barest hint of a smile.

"Well then," he said, "I think it is now truly time for Watson and myself to be heading back to Baker Street. The day is waning, and we have some inspecting to do. Miss Burgess," he cleared his throat, "do you mind if we take your – "

"Please take it," Miss Burgess finished resolutely. "I…I just want it out of the house, if you understand me."

"Excellent. I believe we will find some particularly important clues from the shattered image. I might have to revoke my earlier statement, however; I don't believe the case will be finished tonight."

"As long as we catch the villain who has done this, I am happy," Miss Burgess proclaimed. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes, for all of your wonderful help!"


	3. Part 3

_**A/N:**__ Well despite this being an older story, this is actually my most popular fic so far! _

_I admit that the statue "test" Holmes plans in this chapter is a bit juvenile – he would probably already know the outcome due to his extensive studies – but since I wrote this to be in the earlier days of his practice we can just assume that up to this point he was busy with other more pressing matters than the effects of various hammers. _

**Part 3**

Mrs. Hudson had already set out our dinner by the time we got home, but as I was too shaken to eat, and Holmes was so focused on the matter at hand he brought the box of ruins to table, the beef and potatoes soon grew cold, and our housekeeper sullenly put them away, and we headed upstairs.

I was rather bitter upon first entering. It had been such a long time since I had actually been in the room, I had a hard time finding my chair. It was buried under papers and Holmes' old dinner jacket. (When he was working, my friend was not the tidiest person in London.) He selected several large books from the shelf, cleared a two-year-old paper from the settee, and we sat down to compare our notes.

"I suggest you go on to bed, Watson," Holmes advised me after we spent an hour or so discussing theories. "I have reached a point where nothing can be done until I test a few ideas, and those tests cannot proceed until the shops open in the morning. Be dressed and ready early, dear man." This was a bit of a joke, as I was always ready before Holmes was just rolling out of bed. I sat up, alert to whatever my duty was to be.

"What? Do you have some business for me to do?"

"Oh, certainly Watson. You don't think I could progress without you?"

"Yes, you know it as well as I."

"Well, I probably could," he admitted, "but then the whole business _would_ be rather too business-like, wouldn't it?" He snuffed out his candle. "Good night, Watson!"

By the time I finished my breakfast in the morning, Holmes was beginning to get dressed. I wandered into the room just as he was buttoning up his waistcoat. "Now then, Watson, you will have to make another call on Miss Burgess."

"Why is that?"

"Well, in all the excitement no one, including myself, asked who she sold her bust to. I _did _remember, of course," he added critically, "but I didn't want to upset her. I hope she fared well through the night," he concluded, with a frown of concern.

"Oh, ladies faint all the time," I said practically. Holmes gave me a curious look at my hasty generalization.

"At any rate, you be sure to get a good description of the buyer. He must have been an art dealer, or at least posing as one, because I don't think Miss Burgess would have sold the piece otherwise."

"What if the man who bought the piece was not the one who actually destroyed it?" I asked.

"An excellent thought, but in this case we shall just have to take that chance. Perhaps we will strike luck and he will lead us to the criminal." Holmes looked into the glass, twitched his tie into place, then tromped downstairs with a professional air.

Winchester Park was bustling with early morning activity by the time I arrived, and I noticed several young people coming out of Miss Burgess' apartment building, most likely heading to whatever their daily work might be. I was rather afraid Miss Burgess herself would be out, but fortunately I caught her just as she was locking her door.

"Dr. Watson," she exclaimed, surprised and a bit confused. "Why, whatever are you doing here?"

"Holmes sent me to ask a few questions," I said, offering my arm as we walked downstairs. "In all the excitement – "

"Yes, well what did you need to know?" I wondered why Miss Burgess still seemed so embarrassed about her fainting spell, but she appeared eager to answer my questions.

"The man you sold your sculpture to – what did he look like?"

"Hmm." Miss Burgess thought a moment. "He was especially tall and thin. He was not ugly, but neither was he handsome," she said in a critically feminine manner. "His hair was auburn – dark red, you know – and his face was long and lean. He was rather young, not much older than you yourself." She looked over my shoulder at the notes I was taking.

"This is all rather crucial," I explained, rubbing out a misspelling. "What was his behaviour like?"

"He seemed kind enough, but rather bland. I think he is Irish. We talked about paintings for a while, which of course he would know all about, being an art dealer."

"So he _was_ an art dealer," I said, more to myself than her.

"That is why I sold my bust," she said, regretfully. "Whoever he sold it to must have been very bad to have broken it. And send it back to me," she added with a little choke.

"Miss Burgess," I said, shocked at her naiveté, "the man saying he was an art dealer was most likely _not_ an art dealer. He was probably a fraud. And he is probably the man who broke your sculpture as well; he might have even been an accomplice to another criminal. My companion will naturally discern all this."

"You are both so clever. I suppose you think I am terribly foolish."

"No. Criminals can be quite confusing, even after working in the business as long as I have. But you must keep facts straight."

Miss Burgess nodded. "Is that all you wanted to ask me?"

"Yes, you were indeed helpful," I told her cordially. "Where are you going today? Do you feel well enough?"

"Oh, very much. I am taking the doll's heads I have sculpted to the doll maker's. The income is quite a tidy sum, really. And that's helpful right now, what with hospital bills and my allowance coming late. Then I am going to stay with Margaret for most of the day, I know she is so lonely and – oh!" Miss Burgess lit up and began rooting around in her reticule. "He, that bad art dealer, left me one of these, and with all the deception and whatnot I'm sure it's a fake, to throw us off his trail. But perhaps it can be of some kind of help." She pulled a business card from her bag and handed it to me. "William Beresford, he called himself."

"This is a magnificent piece," I cried.

"Well at least I don't look so inexperienced, now. Have a good afternoon, Dr. Watson."

I returned the greeting, then took a good look at my notes as I waited for the cab. Holmes would be impressed by such a thorough description. In all fairness I could probably learn a thing or two from Miss Burgess.

I arrived home before my friend did, and it seemed a long time to wait before he came struggling through the door, three large bundles in his arm and a bag in his hand. I ran to help him with the bundles.

"See Watson, I told you I needed you. I would certainly smash the testing materials and then where would I be? Several pounds poorer, to be exact."

"What is all this?" I asked in wonderment, as Holmes began stripping the paper from one of the heavy bundles.

"This," he said, "is a sculpture. A bust, actually. Of Socrates." He stood back, admiring it.

"It looks very like him," I observed as Holmes threw off his jacket and began pulling things out of his bag.

"The wicked salesman tried to pass it off as a one-of-a-kind, but I quickly called him on it," he said humorously, rolling up his sleeves. "Anyone, not just myself, can see the lines where it was cast. But it is handsome, to be sure. Yes, it is a true shame; it would look nicely on the mantelpiece or the bookcase. Take another good look at it, Watson, for I am going to smash it." I turned and looked at him sharply. It was a large, heavy hammer he had pulled from the sack, and swinging it with great force, he precipitately brought it down on the Socratic sculpture. A loud crash, followed by a sound like breaking china, shook the room. Shards of clay scattered across the table, and what was left was little more than a fine dust. Holmes sifted the pieces through his thin hands and looked at them closely. "Oh my, not the right hammer."

"What is going _on_ in here, Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson looked positively distressed, throwing the door open and shoving her head in. "It sounds like the world is coming to an end!"

"I suggest you step back, Mrs. Hudson, these pieces have a tendency to fly across the room, and we would hate for an injury to occur merely for the sake of testing a theory," Holmes advised smoothly. Another bundle was unwrapped and set upon the table with greatest care, and with another golf-like swing of a hammer, a smaller tool managed to smash Socrates' head into small pieces. Mrs. Hudson flung up her arms and fled the room.

"Dash it all, this is not right either." Holmes was carefully studying and comparing the wreckage between the two sculptures with his convex lens, apparently disgusted with the results of both. I have my own suspicions, however. I believe Holmes just liked to bring the hammer down and disturb the neighbours. This time he pulled out a small mallet, like the kind used for hanging pictures.

"Let us pray this is right, Watson, because this is both my last hammer and my last sculpture." With the same power he crashed the hammer into the crown of the head, but rather than causing the pieces to soar across the room, it only sent a crack running through to Socrates' nose.

"Very interesting," Holmes remarked. He hit the same spot again, and the bust broke into several fairly large pieces, one of which Holmes took up and examined. "_Now_ we are getting somewhere, Watson. Take a look at this." He cleared away the dust and chips of clay and set the box containing Miss Burgess' shattered sculpture upon the desk. He pulled out one rather large piece, and compared it to the pieces from the three trials.

"Now, observe. When our philosopher was smashed with the large, heavy hammer, the clay near the point of impact was ground into a rather dusty material, and the pieces that broke were somewhat small. When using a smaller hammer, the dust was eliminated, but the pieces were still small because the hammer was still heavy. When using this mite, however," he picked up the smallest mallet, "the pieces were large, because the hammer was rather light. Now compare this wreckage to that of Miss Burgess' sculpture." The two pieces I examined were very similar.

"You think someone used a small hammer, then?" I asked.

"Yes, but not just any small hammer, one for hanging pictures," Holmes said, throwing himself into his favourite corner of the sofa exultantly. "The friend we seek has been around art, and could easily fool the unfortunate Miss Burgess."

"But Holmes, _these_ pieces are quite small," I said, picking up a tiny shard from the box.

"Smashed a second time, after the statue was already broken. It makes the whole thing look worse, you see? Now we have only to connect the damage done to the two works of art, and we shall have our criminal, clear as day. Oh," he said, suddenly remembering, "your notes. Where are they?"

"Right here. Miss Burgess _did_ think he was an art dealer. You are completely correct."

"Ha." Holmes skimmed my description "Red hair, long and lean."

"And an Irishman."

"Who deals in art, most likely in hanging pictures. He probably works at a framing gallery."

"And that is why he knew enough about art to convince Miss Burgess he was a dealer," I said, realising. "Holmes, you are a genius!"

"But not without these notes," he said vaguely, studying the little book. I couldn't help feeling a high satisfaction at this simple praise. "These are most important. In fact, I think you and I have an errand to run."

"An errand?"

"Yes," Holmes said, grabbing his hat off the peg. "To the framing shop."

All of a sudden, I remembered the little card Miss Burgess had handed me. I presented it to Holmes.

"Amazing! A most singular young lady, with great presence of mind," he pronounced. He held the card up to the light. "This paper is rather…cheap. Printing is as well, look how the letters have blurred around the edges from an inexperienced printer. No! I am mistaken – these have been printed using a typewriter, like the fakes I carry." He touched the card to his nose and drew back, repulsed. "Ugh. I must say, our friend wears the cheapest possible cologne in England. It must be 90% alcohol. He was keeping this card in his waistcoat pocket," he explained as I sniffed the little paper. "And I bet all the perfumes were to cover up tobacco smoke."

"I smell no smoke."

"I'm sure you do not, but take a look here." I discerned a small, yellow smudge at the corner of the card.

"Tobacco!"

"As I was telling you, Watson. Our gentleman rolls his own cigarettes. There will be a twin mark on his forefinger. Let me see…"

One of Holmes' prides was his top-notch microscope. He now slid the card underneath the lens, adjusted all manner of gears and screws, and peered into the eyepiece.

"Ah," he said, changing the light. "Watson, what do you see here?"

I looked in to the piece. "I see…a black powder. Soot!"

"Yes, soot. Our man, who wears cheap cologne and was not willing to spend much money on his business cards, has been carrying this card in a place where soot hangs in the air…"

"Closer to the industrial area," I finished.

"And that, old fellow, is precisely where I believe this framing shop to be. If we start out now, we should be back in time to eat our supper…and to keep Mrs. Hudson happy. What do you say, Watson? Is it an adventure?"

"Oh, yes!"


	4. Part 4

**Part 4**

"Now Watson, do you remember the part you are playing?"

I looked sideways from the window to my companion at the far end of the cab. "Yes," said I.

"I think you should repeat it to me. We don't want a repeat of the Italian incident."

I wished Holmes would not always bring up my shortcomings. Not everyone was as freakishly attentive as he. I glowered at him and knew I could prove him wrong. I began fiercely, "I am the brother-in-law to you, Mr….ah…."

"Lambert."

"Yes, Mr. James – "

"John."

"John Lambert. And you have come to select a frame for your wife's new painting…."

"But I am not sure which kind she likes best," Holmes prompted.

"No, and I have come to help you."

"Precisely. But I don't think you ought to stare at my nose in that way, it is really dreadfully rude."

Holmes gave me a terrible scowl, made most hilarious to me by the bushy realistic-looking beard, which made him look easily ten years older, and the large make-believe nose he had attached over his own aquiline one. For the whole of the cab ride to the frame shop, which Holmes had looked up in a directory, he had been continually pressing the edges of the rubber, evidently dissatisfied with the results. I had spent my own time wondering if it was really truly Sherlock Holmes, and constantly being reminded by his curt, logical manner that indeed it was he.

"This thing makes my speech ridiculous. Then again, that could be beneficial…. If my nose should come off," he added, with dark humor, "say, 'Thank the Lord!' or something to that degree. Oh look, we are here," he added, with a choking cough. "We are certainly in the industrial age."

The frame shop was rather less of a store than another tumble-down, shabby building in the row of businesses, blacked all over by the soot showering down from the smokestacks, which raised themselves like long, wicked fingers into the cloudy afternoon sky beyond. The door creaked loudly as Holmes opened it with another pat at his nose.

I was rather disturbed to see not a tall pale Irishman behind the counter but a short young man, with a dark complexion and a pair of large, wire-rimmed spectacles.

"Can I help you?" he asked eagerly, looking up from what seemed to be an account book.

"Oh, yes," Holmes said in an affected tone. "I do need help."

"All right, then, that _is_ what I'm payed for, after all." With a large smile he shut the books and hurried over, absently wiping ink onto his striped trousers. "Do you know what you are looking for?"

"No, not re-a-lly. Matthew, what do you think Sarah would like best?"

Holmes looked at me with such a curious, perplexed expression I could have shouted with laughter. But I composed myself and said, "Oh, John, I am sure _I_ don't know."

Holmes cast a greedy glance at the shopkeeper, judging his face. But he didn't seem at all irritated, and not the least bland. "I will help you as well as I can, but I myself am no great shakes at art. I _do_ know that you ought to match the frame to the painting, and not to the room."

"Well we have an awful lot of wood in the room," improvised Mr. "Lambert".

"This is a nice one, isn't it?" the young man said fondly of one large square number. "It – "

"Who does this painting?" Holmes asked presently, smoothly garnering evidence of artistic expertise.

"Er…that one is a Fragonard. Or a Vermeer. To be honest, I can't really tell the difference."

I shot a look at Holmes, who was calmly perusing the selection without betraying a hint of emotion. What if our search had led to a dead end? I worried. I wrung my hands and tried to look as casual as my clumsy character "Matthew" would.

Our aide was meanwhile shuffling about, adjusting his spectacles agreeably. "What about – " The little dark man's suggestion was cut off by a slam of a door. Holmes' face lit up at the sight of a slinking, long-limbed young fellow with dark red hair, who came somewhere from the back room and stomped behind the counter. To fool Miss Burgess, he must have indeed been a better actor than ourselves. His threatening scowls were not at all business-like. He lit up a cigarette as soon as he saw us, puffing and huffing furiously.

"Oh, Benigan," said our assistant cheerily. "Don't worry about these customers, I'm… working with them. Go on, go out with your uncle."

"I told ye, don't talk about my uncle in front of customers," the newcomer barked with an unmistakable Irish twang. He seemed to think better of this outburst and added, "It an't good fer business."

"Well, I'm helping these gentlemen, so – "

"Did ye finish the accounts, Elgar?" Benigan puffed rings of smoke to the ceiling.

"Yes."

Benigan gave a general, unprejudiced glower and stared at us from behind the counter.

"Where do you fellows come from?" Elgar inquired presently. But Holmes was not ready to answer just yet.

"Matthew," he said to me, "what about this frame?"

"Oh, no, sister wouldn't like it."

"Is this one a da Vinci?" Holmes inquired.

"Benigan," Elgar entreated as the Irishman was putting on his hat, "come help these fellows after all. You know this is your forte."

Benigan gave him a murderous stare. "I have an appointment, Elgar."

"Just do it quickly. These gentlemen are not difficult, are you fellows?"

"No, not at all!" Holmes beamed.

Benigan gave a long look at the door. "Gold or silver?" he asked Holmes sharply, fingering his cigarette. Holmes looked to me for enlightenment.

"Gold."

"We have a lov'ly selection of French frames," he said, with the clear impression he hated France and all its inhabitants. "They go ex'llently wi' the wairks of Rembrandt or Titian, the masters. Also wi' anything done in chiaroscuro."

"How would you go about hanging them up?" Holmes asked, his eyes barely moving as he took in every detail of the Irishman's appearance.

"Oh, with a little mallet," Benigan said rapidly, unconsciously walking into the trap with long careless strides.

"Hmm, we'll look a bit longer, won't we Matthew?" my friend declared.

"Yes, certainly John."

Benigan returned behind the counter, and happy little Elgar struck up a conversation. As we surveyed the frames, we most expertly eavesdropped.

"Your uncle, is he feeling better?"

A grunt.

"I suppose you enjoyed your day off?"

"It was fine eno'."

"Well, that is always good. I went and got that heavy paper, like you asked. I wish you would tell me what it is for."

"I'm sure you do."

"When will you be getting that scholarship?" Elgar asked, as if he were anticipating that day.

"Soon. I canna wait to get out o' this store and this business," Benigan sighed.

"My dear Matthew," Holmes said, just loud enough for the employees to hear, "I don't find anything of interest here."

"Are you sure, sir?" Elgar called.

"No, no, nothing my dear Sarah would par-_tic-_ularly like. And it is getting late. The ride to Baker Street is always unpleasant at night." Holmes skillfully dropped that last piece of information without any emphasis. He knew our widespread fame would be enough bait.

There was just the barest of shuffles from Mr. Benigan. Almost imperceptibly, he nudged Elgar.

"If you buy a frame here, we will do the framing for free," Elgar informed us mechanically.

"Per'aps you would like to leave a caird?" Benigan showed an uncharacteristic amount of interest in this subject, especially considering he had an appointment.

"Oh, certainly," Holmes bumbled. You will remember, he hadn't introduced himself to Benigan yet. Holmes was wearing a large, thick greatcoat with many pockets. He had spent a good deal of time selecting this article before we left our flat. Now he dug his hands into the pockets and poked around for a while.

"Matthew, I brought my card. Do you have it?"

"Oh, no, John," I recited, bringing the digging to a standstill.

"I thought I handed it to you," Holmes said with a wink. Benigan was edgily drumming his fingers on the countertop.

"No, no, check your pockets again."

Holmes expertly groaned, shrugged, and continued ransacking his innumerable pockets. After repeating this display once or twice, he finally discovered the card hidden in his waistcoat.

"I ought to have known I put it there," Holmes explained before revealing the card to Benigan.

"Yes, yes," said that young man, anxious to get at the desired information.

"I was afraid it would get wet, you see," my friend went on, as if there were infinite time in the world.

"Lots of rain, yes, but we ha' bi'ness to attend to, ye see."

The card was presented. Benigan quickly read the words, and his face visibly relaxed.

"Mr. Lambert," he mumbled.

"Yes, Mr. John Lambert, publisher. If you should come our way, look us up." Holmes extended his hand cheerily. Benigan shook half-heartedly, first with Holmes, then with myself. I noticed, clear as day, the tell-tale amber tobacco mark on his forefinger.

"Have a good ride back to Baker Street!" said Elgar.

"Oh, we shall," Holmes assured him.

The nose was peeled off as soon as the carriage door was shut behind us. Holmes took in several deep breaths. Out the window, we could see Mr. Benigan leaving the shop, heading down the road with great speed.

"Benigan and Beresford are one and the same," Holmes said presently in his customary indifferent tone.

"Benigan is the criminal, then?" As soon as I asked the question I realised Holmes was brooding. "Or isn't he?"

"I'm sure he is," Sherlock Holmes began. "But there are still several rough spots, so to speak. What was his motive? There is certainly not a clear one."  
"Money?" I guessed. "You can tell he isn't well-off, by the cologne and the building and all."

"But he lost money in paying for the bust and the painting. And how did he acquire Miss Ainsley's painting? – she didn't attend the art exhibit."  
"Oh, that's right."

"There is still more to this crime. If only we had more information!"

The cab rolled into Baker Street just as the lamps were being lighted. A line of yellow spheres ran up and down the roads, glimmering in the dark and the fog and the rain. Holmes paid the cabby as I hurried to unlock the door. Holmes suddenly put his hand on my shoulder. "Do you hear something?"

I strained my ears to listen. "I do not." Holmes was listening hard.

"I thought I heard a cry."

"It might have been a siren," I supplied.

Holmes frowned at me. "Does that make it any less important?" But soon my friend shrugged. "It is not coming this way, at any rate."

Mrs. Hudson welcomed us in her usual bustling way. "Now then, take off your coats and your shoes. It is terrible weather out! Go, sit by the fire, it's nice and warm. I fixed lamb for dinner, your favourite, Dr. Watson."

I often wondered at the relationship Holmes had with the kind, benevolent landlady. I surely didn't mind her, but it seemed she was a constant nuisance to him. He groaned as he climbed the stairs, pulling his coat off.

"She's not that bad," I told him sensibly.

"You say that only because she fixed lamb," Holmes replied irritably, reaching for his Persian jacket. "And furthermore, it appears she has been tidying up!"

"It _is_ her rooms we are renting," I reminded him.

"I told her to dust and to clean _your_ room, and not to go hiding _my _papers and burning them." As he spoke he had promptly undone all her housework, and was busy rooting around in his desk for a particular fountain pen.

"I will tell her to hold your supper," I said consolingly. Holmes waved his hand at me and continued to dig. I was just turning to leave when Holmes looked up sharply. Then I heard what he had already perceived – an insane banging at the door, followed by a passionate, muffled cry, "Mr. Holmes!"

In his long strides, Holmes cleared the stairs three at a time. He flung open the door to reveal a heart-wrenching sight – a small, sobbing figure determined to be let in.

It was Viola Burgess. No hat, no umbrella anywhere, strands of wet hair clinging to her poor white face, and vehement teardrops mixing with the rain that was steadily drenching her.

"Good Lord, what is this?" I cried.

"Hush, Watson! Let her speak."

"Someone was in my house!" she shrieked, bursting into a fresh wave of tears and wringing her hands, blue eyes open wide with fear.

"What do you mean?" Holmes asked sharply, leading her into the room.

"Somebody was in my house, and Mrs. Edwards let him in without a key! And all the porcelain dolls, smashed and spread through the house! It was so terrible, all of them! It looked as if they were murdered, just trampled down the hall and on my bed, in the closets! It was someone who knew me, it must have been!"

The poor girl was shivering with cold and terror, and clinging to me as if her heart would break.

"Speak clearly," Holmes instructed.

"I had thirty sculpted doll heads, and he smashed all of them, then placed a doll in my chair by the fire and one in Margaret's, and left a note on the floor, and left the door cracked, so I was afraid to go inside! And they looked so mangled, so pathetic, like little children all dead!"

Holmes looked at me seriously as Mrs. Hudson came gliding into the hall. "Poor child, what has happened?"

"Mrs. Hudson, get Miss Burgess something to eat, and a place by the fire," Holmes barked, wrapping his Persian jacket round the wet girl. "Watson, call Lestrade, get his men on this case, search her apartment for clues. This has gone far enough. Now, Miss Burgess, tell me what the note said."

He looked at her and she swallowed, "It said, 'Merely dolls in the game,' in typed print."

"Oh, is that all?" Holmes said, relieved. Miss Burgess stared at him as if he were mad.

"'That's all'? What in Heaven are you talking about?"

"We have a criminal who thinks he is smarter than he really is," he said vaguely, rubbing his forehead and pacing by the crackling orange fire.

"I called Lestrade, his men are coming," I stated. "Holmes, this is serious."

"Miss Burgess," Holmes started, whirling, "concerning your cousin's painting – can you tell me what was the scene?"

"It was a place near Brighton, where our families went on a business trip," Viola Burgess said, sniffing. "Margaret and I went on our own to observe the scenery and nature, and she began that painting."

"And your sculpture? What was the subject?"

"It was supposed to look like Jupiter," she said.

"But who was your model?"

"My father."

"Did it resemble him?"

"Yes, if you knew my father. I only added a beard."

"And your porcelain doll heads," he continued, "were they still on that high shelf in the closet?"

"Yes; what has that to do with anything?" Miss Burgess asked at this seemingly unimportant remark.

But Holmes was growing excited, the truth was bared nearly to the bone now. "Miss Burgess, what do these two works of art have in common?"

She searched his face as if for an answer. "I don't…oh God!"

"What!"

"My father is going to the University of Brighton, to receive his award tomorrow!" Her breath was coming in short, frightened gasps. "It was never about me or Margaret? It was about father!"

"Benigan!" I groaned, enraged.

"That terrible, false art dealer!" Miss Burgess wailed.

"No," Holmes corrected. "Not this time."

"No?" I demanded. "Then tell us, Holmes, who it could possibly be."

"Certainly. The man who was let into your house knew you," Holmes returned, checking the points on his fingers. "And your landlady knew _him_. Your allowance cheque was late, because he was busy with bigger game, and your cousin Margaret gave her painting to _him_, because the poor thing trusted him. He also had an accomplice, who was an Irishman, but was busy today with a Mr. John Lambert. The villain, my dear girl, is someone who thought he would be overlooked, but your father's professor friend, Mr. Lawrence, was quite wrong!"

Miss Burgess had placed her hands to her heart. "Mr. Lawrence? But he is so kind and attentive – and he and father are friends!"

"Only in appearance," Holmes said gravely.

The young lady was struggling for breath. I have dealt with many a man injured in an Afghan battle, but the part sob, part gasp, part shriek that issued from Viola Burgess' throat was one of the most sickening sounds I had ever heard. "He is going to kill him, Mr. Holmes!"

"Not if we can help it," Holmes fired resolutely. "Watson, grab your coat and hat, then head to the train station and order two tickets for Brighton-and-Hoves." After these orders, Holmes bent down to console hysterical Miss Burgess. "Oh, you must save him, Mr. Holmes!"

"Please, Miss Burgess, have no fear. Your father is not in as much danger as it seems."

"Don't you dare neglect him!" she shouted, fury burning on her face. "He will surely be killed!"

"Miss Burgess, please. Listen, calm yourself. Were you ever teased by a boy when you were small?"

She looked as if she were only ten now. "Sometimes," she admitted, bewildered. "One would pull my braid whenever I went past."

"This is almost the same principle. This criminal has picked an easy target, two young girls living alone in the city. He is a bully, wanting only to terrorize. I don't believe he will follow through."

"You really don't believe it?"

"It is unlikely." Holmes smiled in his odd, quiet way, and left the room.

Meanwhile, I went and got the commanded articles, then supplied the bustling Mrs. Hudson with a bottle of smelling salts, lest Miss Burgess should find herself in need of them. As I was leaving the parlour, Holmes stopped me abruptly.

"I am ready to leave, will you meet me there?" I asked.

"Yes. Watson," he said in an undertone, "have you your pistol handy?"

I stared up at him in disbelief. "But I thought…" I glanced at the young lady softly crying by the fire.

"An overconfident criminal is often the most dangerous."

"Holmes, you said – "

"I said "often", not "always". Go and get your pistol, Watson."

I did as I was told.

Less than an hour later, Holmes had left Miss Burgess in our flat with a warm dinner and a fairly easy heart; he arrived at the station, tall, stark and determined, and together we boarded a train headed for the seaside town of Brighton. I looked solemnly out of window at the cold stars glinting in the sky, sailing past us as the train shuttled into the sharp black night.


	5. Part 5

**Part 5**

The train lurched to a stop at five o' clock in the morning. The train ride was bad enough – I was stiff and banged about the entire night in the small hard seat, but the waiting was, by far, the worst part of all. Wrapped in my topcoat and a scarf up to my nose, I could entertain nothing but ominous visions the entire night. I spent my time in fretting and going over the hastily documented police report while Sherlock Holmes, ever calm, slept placidly.

I shook him awake the instant the wheels ground to a halt. "Holmes," I said urgently, "we are here."

My companion was immediately wide awake and already observing me critically. "Watson," he said sharply, "you haven't slept at all?"

"No," I said, irritably, "_I_ was too worried."

"Don't get offended, dear fellow." He stood up to stretch, smoothed his wrinkled black jacket, and offered me his hand. "You are always saying I must rest – 'How can I possibly work otherwise?' Well, how can you? Besides, I have dreamed out the plan, you see, which I will tell you in detail once I rent a cab. A detective never truly rests."

"Well I have been positively ill," I told him fervently. "Poor Viola Burgess is alone in our flat and her father is in danger, and we are the only ones who – "

"Dr. Watson, you have worked with me for nearly five years. How many times has it been that we miss the criminal? Very few, and you of all people must know that. I don't intend to begin the practice with this particular case, either. Come now, time to get off and 'lay in wait'."

It didn't sound like an inviting prospect. We filed off the train at Kemptown Station, huddled and mixed among the other passengers, coughing from the dusty coal smoke, wispy clouds coming from our frozen breath. Holmes suddenly became averse to riding in a cab at the moment, so he instead ordered a gig which he drove himself; I clambered up onto the box beside him, and with a lash of his riding whip, the horses started at a quick trot down the road.

Holmes skillfully made his way through all the various byroads and alleys, then over intricate winding paths that would have completely mystified me, especially in the strange town of Brighton-and-Hoves. At that early hour, the moon still hung low in the blue-tinted sky, and a few lonely stars remained faint over the horizon. Eventually everything was obscured by a dreadful white fog that drifted from the sea to settle over the neighbouring village. Occasionally, the plaintive cry of a single gull chimed overhead, reminding me that we were near a sea town, along with giving me a sense of sinking foreboding. I shoved my hat down upon my nose and chided myself for my cowardice.

We sat in silence for the space of approximately one hour, with the cold fog creeping in like death and the moon slowly drowning in the sky. I worried over whether Miss Burgess was safe at our apartment, or if she had fainted, or perhaps come down with other medical problems. You could hear dogs howling raggedly through the mist, and every now and then I saw the dull flicker of a lamp in some home far away. As the time wore on I felt as if Holmes was driving terribly slowly; once or twice the horse slipped, and he had to get down to repair some damage; and yet the morning seemed to be coming on so quickly I feared we would be too late – and that I was doing nothing but watching and waiting like, as the note said, a "doll in the game".

Besides his cold manner, the worst thing about Sherlock Holmes was the fact that he would leave me completely uninformed up to the last moment. I knew my asking about the plan would be to no avail, and it was not until we broke out of the fog to see, like a beacon in the distance, the coloured flag waving over the lean brick building of Brighton College that he began to reveal his plot. "I have been going over the plan," he began slowly to catch my attention. I listened raptly with mingled excitement and terror: excitement, that I was to take place in it – it was as if he were describing some dramatic play he had seen, and I couldn't believe I would be a part of it; terror, because I knew the true danger in the actions we might be forced to commit, and all the lives at stake in the bargain.

"And it will all be done with excellent showmanship," Holmes finished grandly. "Now listen closely – Miss Burgess managed to tell me that Lawrence is rather short, with reddish hair, a pointy face, and a moustache." This was particularly important for my part of the plan. "Hullo, it appears we have arrived at the honourable college."

And indeed we had. Holmes threw himself out of the gig and pulled me out; then with great speed, so that I had a hard time keeping up, he led me into the throngs of people gathered on the lawn in front of the university. A stage with a thick velvet curtain had been erected outside for the ceremony, the men who set it up apparently unaware that the temperature was steadily dropping. Scattered among a crowd of scholarly ladies, distinguished teachers, and greedy reporters, the students were assembled on the lawn, stamping to keep warm. I could tell which of the many students were artists, as they had longish hair and orange hothouse flowers stuck in their buttonholes. I couldn't help but think of Viola Burgess.

As I observed all this, Holmes' trained eye carefully swept the great crowd. He was still on tiptoe and looking as he asked me, "You remember everything you are to do?"

"Yes," I said.

Holmes pointed with the end of his riding whip. "Right there, Watson, is your man. Remember everything you were told – it is of utmost importance, life or death. Good bye, my friend; Professor Burgess' life, and Viola Burgess' happiness, is in our hands." And before I could respond Holmes had disappeared in the crowd.

I searched and located the man fitting Miss Burgess' description and pushed my way over to him. He was standing there quite casually, languidly observing the scene, and for a moment I wondered if we were possibly wrong about our criminal. I stood there for a few seconds, hands in my pockets, with a sham interest in the goings-on. Then I turned to the villain.

"Do you teach here at this college?" I asked boisterously, with my best representation of an American accent. Lawrence looked at me for a moment before replying agreeably, "No, I actually work in London."

"Well then," with feigned interest, "what brings you out to these parts?"

"You know, I could ask the same of you," he answered pointedly.

I shuffled, agitated. It was a well-known fact that the criminals were often very complacent, believing they were entitled to the crime they planned to commit. But this man's easy temper was extremely unnerving. "_I_ am visiting my brother, who attends college here," I finally lied.

"My friend is getting an award from a prestigious academic board," said he, motioning to the stage. "He teaches in Bristol."

I nodded. "Awfully interesting, getting an award," I said. "What for? Arithmetic?"

"Art."

"You said you were a professor? What do you teach?" I asked, which was my last question clearly scripted by Holmes.

"Literature."

I knew I had to keep up the conversation for Holmes to complete his part, but what to ask? I couldn't dare to give myself away – I had to appear truly interested, and to catch Lawrence's attention as to sufficiently distract him. Finally, as if in a bolt of Providence, the answer came to me. "I am glad you are a literature teacher, because, believe it or not, I have a question."

He watched me skeptically. "Yes?"

"Well," I said, clearing my throat, "have you ever read Plato's "Oration on Fear" from _The Gorgias_?"

"Naturally," was the answer.

"In it, Socrates mentioned moral evil as being the only real evil, and that poverty, sickness, death and so on, which are inflicted upon us by man, should not be feared…." From the corner of my eye I saw a flicker of movement behind the stage curtain and tried to hide my increasing emotion.

"Yes, yes, go on," Lawrence insisted.

"Oh, but is that…ah…is that truly possible? If it is I should love to know how it is accomplished – " Another movement behind the curtain. I kept a careful track as the master of ceremonies began his monologue.

"Well, get on with it!" Lawrence said harshly.

"Certainly...because I feel that if only we were able to master those emotions our society would be most highly improved. Do you know anything about it…?"

I turned, and saw Lawrence was ignoring me, as fixedly watching the stage for movement as I was.

I dropped all pretenses, kept my eyes on the curtain, and my heart literally died when I heard the man on stage. "Now we have the honour of an appearance by Professor Edwin Burgess!" I watched carefully as the curtains on the stage parted, and a tall man in tweed stepped out before the audience.

Two premature shots cracked in the air, but they never made it to the platform, only shot up into the leaden sky, because I had flung myself at Lawrence and brought him, furious and writhing, to the ground. "Let me go, you foul devil!" he swore, angry red veins starting from his forehead, eyes darting furiously with none of his previous carelessness – he was thrashing like the very devil himself. But I pressed upon him with all my strength, wrenched the pistol from his grasp, and never let him up. In one swift movement I clamped a pair of handcuffs onto his wrists, victoriously, and stood up relieved, ready to lead him to the police station and to justice.

But the ladies started screaming again and there was a general uproar when suddenly, from the far corner of the crowd there rang another unexpected gunshot, and another, even a third, as someone pressed through the masses, making his way frantically to the stage.

It was Benigan.

Another gunshot came whizzing from the young man's pistol. The man on stage dropped, wounded, and landed on the wooden scaffold with a sickening thud, head disappearing behind the podium. I choked, overcome with rage, emotion and an impression of defeat. Benigan had been completely unforeseen; Holmes hadn't even considered him in the plan. The Irishman forced his way through the shrieking masses, and climbed to the stage, where, triumphantly, he rolled the crumpled professor over with his foot.

But it was not the professor – nay, it was far from Edwin Burgess who rolled over lifelessly, then, to the surprise of myself and the entire audience, sprang up from the stage at his full height, brandishing his riding crop like some vengeful apparition.

It was, you know, Sherlock Holmes.

Then Benigan saw his mistake, then I rejoiced to see my companion alive and well, then I recoiled in horror as I saw Benigan leap from the stage, and disappear into the multitudes as a drop of water in the sea.

"Watson!" Holmes cried feverishly from the stage, "You must _not_ let him get away!"

Without another word I took off at my greatest possible speed, forcing myself through the crowd as Holmes sprang into it, but he was in much better training and he soon overtook me with long strides, hot on the trail of the guilty young Irishman.

Across the lawn, bounding over lounging figures of astonished students and through crowds of more astonished professors, Holmes and I ran as if possessed. We turned corners, ducked under age-old walkways, jumped across streets like stones skidding across water; but Benigan, who had had a start, still managed to elude us.

We raced into the town, where Benigan's long lean outline was hidden by the people milling around by the shops. I could have shot at him – I had my revolver – but I feared hitting an innocent bystander with an unlucky try. He crossed the street, and Holmes and I dodged between two oncoming cabs, determined not to let the villain escape us.

Benigan turned down an alley and disappeared. I thought we had lost him; I briefly took a heaving, panting breath and tried to recover myself when Holmes rushed past me at an inhuman rate. I followed, breathless and thrilled, and was about to turn the corner he had already rounded when I heard a simultaneous snap and gunshot.

I knew one of the two men was forced to surrender, but the question was, which one? I stumbled, breathless, into the space between two high buildings, where the laundry hung between the walls above us and the fog slowly crept in at both ends.

"I have him, Watson, by God I have him!" Such a joyous cry to hear! I ran up, heaving, to see the wondrous sight – Holmes had clenched his hand around the bloody wrist of the Irishman Benigan, and the cruel shining pistol had skidded across the paved walkway, close to the blackened spot of a misdirected bullet. I picked the gun up.

"You used your whip!" I cried, my heart sailing.

"I never shoot unless I have to," Holmes gasped, pulling a pair of steel handcuffs from his waistcoat pocket. "The same cannot be said of Mr. Benigan, apparently. Take note, Watson," he added, clasping the jangling metal object around his captive's wrist, "how long it will take the police to follow. Ah, if you and I had not been here, Doctor, our villain – or rather, villains – would have gotten away. At any rate," he said to the criminal as I checked Benigan's injured wrist, "you will be spending rather a long time in prison for attempted murder, along with your wicked uncle. And it appears to me, although perhaps I don't know much about the matter, that during that interval you won't be wearing cheap, easily identifiable penny cologne."


	6. Part 6

**Part 6**

Sherlock Holmes never dwelt on the particulars of one case when he was engaged in another. Unfortunately, the very night after we had apprehended Benigan and Lawrence, another case involving a stolen cameo attracted his attention, and his amazing chain of deduction was left unexplained. It was not until the end of November, when his mind was relatively free, that he began to clear up the murky parts of this unusual adventure.

"Well, I didn't catch either Benigan or Lawrence before the day was out," he said dejectedly, as he sat reading by the fire.

"Whatever do you mean?" I asked, looking up from writing in my journal with astonishment.

"Don't you remember, Watson? When I agreed to meet Miss Viola Burgess at her apartment, I told her I would solve the mystery that day. And I did not."

"Oh, Holmes," I said, reproachfully. "You must not think – "

"It is rather unusual for me," he said, meditating.

"Well, at least you knew what you were doing," I remarked. "I was really rather confused for the most part."

"You were? Ha! How odd. I will explain what I did, if you like."

I told him I certainly would.

"Well," he began, settling himself in his favourite part of the settee, "it is all quite easy, if you think about it.

"I admit I first suspected Miss Burgess. The fact that she knew not to touch the knife, as she would leave fingerprints, is an unusual deduction on the client's part, unless she thinks she has the possibility to be incriminated. Of course we later realised she was just a conscientious young lady, as proven in her various descriptions, and this also makes sense, as an artist would have to possess a keen eye for detail. But when we learned she had attended the art show, I was even more inclined to mistrust her. But of course that was cleared up when she actually fainted upon receiving the box with her broken sculpture. A woman cannot fake a fainting spell such as that, and she certainly cannot accelerate her heart to the rate that young lady's was beating. Of course, Miss Burgess might not have expected _her_ sculpture to be broken, but I determined the two defacements were related by the way they were opened and stored – you were present for that explanation, assuming you were listening. Therefore, I knew Miss Burgess was truly shocked and therefore in the clear.

"Knowing Miss Burgess was not the criminal, I had reasonable enough data to determine that Miss Ainsley was also exonerated – I now had to wonder about those third parties I had mentioned. The obvious one was, of course, the unfortunate Mr. Benigan. I was unsure, in the beginning, why he would go to such trouble for a rather hidden motive. I have since learned, after Lestrade questioned the Irishman, that he had been promised by his uncle the admission to an art school. He hated the framing shop at which he worked, but he did not have the means to get out into a new profession. Art is what he was truly interested in, and he had studied and been around it so much he was easily able to fool Miss Burgess. He might have gotten away with it, if he hadn't left his business card. It was intended as misleading information that would serve to cover up his tracks. Regrettably, it did just the opposite – I was able to obtain information both about Benigan and where he lived, which was confirmed upon our visit to the framing shop.

"But one thing still puzzled me – you will remember, I was brooding over it on the ride home.

I knew Miss Margaret Ainsley would not just give her painting over to anybody. She did not attend the art exhibit, of course, so she had not met any art dealers. She certainly didn't know Benigan well enough to trust him with her masterpiece. But there was one person she _did_ know, and as Miss Burgess informed me, the two girls placed full confidence in. That was Mr. Lawrence. Inspector Lestrade, the senseless fellow, did manage to learn in his questioning that sometime during Miss Burgess' week-long absence, Mr. Lawrence came over to deliver the allowance cheque and Miss Ainsley charged him with the care of her masterpiece, which he was supposed to enter in the exhibition. He already had a clear motive – he was jealous of his friend, Professor Burgess, and his envy turned to mania, in which he decided to kill him. He hatched a plan, beginning with the destruction of Miss Ainsley's painting. This was not only intended to be malicious, but it also helped him to get the attention he craved; for some criminals, all the fun is in leaving unusual clues and believing they have outwitted the authorities. Mr. Lawrence is one of these – that is why he went on to shatter Miss Burgess' bust, then to smash the doll heads. But I still knew he could be dangerous, because he had sort of a mad satisfaction in all this."

"Where did Benigan come in?" I wondered.

"That was the tipping point, Watson. I knew Benigan was a criminal, and I suspected Mr. Lawrence – then, with the clue of the smashed doll heads I realised they were accomplices. But Mr. Lawrence was forced to execute the last job of his mission himself. Of course it was easy enough – the landlady knew him because he brings the allowance cheque – but he spent too much time waiting for his nephew, who was busy with us, to arrive. He became late. Miss Burgess, who can be seen from the cotton-curtained window, was probably coming up as soon as he was finished smashing the dolls, and he hurried, leaving the door open and his note in an atypically unnoticeable place: the floor."

"Why was he waiting for Benigan? What use was the Irishman to him?" I asked with interest.

"To answer your first question, I believe Benigan would make his appearance along with Lawrence. How else could they obtain the key to the apartment, if the landlady didn't know the Irishman? To answer the second question, Benigan was indispensable to Lawrence – he could not obtain Miss Burgess' sculpture without obvious recognition; his nephew's fingerprints, if any, would be found in the house, and the poor chap was so caught up in everything he didn't even realise that Lawrence would remain in the clear. But the third reason, however, is the most important – Benigan is tall."

"What difference does that make?"

"Do you remember when I opened the closet and we looked at Miss Burgess' doll heads? They were on an exceptionally high shelf. _I_ had a bit of difficulty reaching them. If Benigan were there, he could simply reach up and take them, like myself. But Mr. Lawrence, being short, would have to bring a chair or climb up on something, risking a footprint and disturbing the arrangement of the house. I daresay, if Lestrade had paid attention, there would be a chair out of place."

"So – "

"So Professor Lawrence's unnecessary theatrics led me to determine the deductions I formed, and ultimately allowed for our capture of the criminals."

"Well, you were not without theatrics yourself," I reminded him. "The Brighton College scene – "

"Was in all the newspapers!" Holmes chuckled. "That one was rather comical, from my point of view."

"It was horrible from down in the audience. I thought you had actually been shot!"

"That is a testament to my acting abilities, Dr. Watson. What surprises me most, however, is that you truly believed I had not considered Benigan."

"You mean you had?"

"Of course, Watson! That is, after all, what accomplices are for – if Lawrence was unable to carry out his duties, Benigan would take over. They were determined to have Professor Burgess dead. I am just lucky I resembled him enough that in the heat of the moment they mistook me for the good man. Yes, when I left you in the audience, I lost no time in rushing back behind the stage. Professor Burgess was there, reading over various notes on the speech he was about to make. He looks much like his daughter, only his face is a deal sharper. I quickly explained my motive, but he was loath to let me on the stage in his place – all excellently noble actions aimed at preventing my getting killed. But I have something of a charmed life, Watson; I hardly ever get injured. I eventually resorted to threatening him, and it was only then he allowed me to make my way to the stage, wearing his own jacket so as to disguise myself further.

"I peered out from behind the curtain and saw you, not without talent, imitating an American and distracting Lawrence. But I saw the lithe figure of Benigan in the corner, and kept on my guard. I had made sure to keep my riding whip with me, (that is why I rented a gig, so I could bring my own whip), and stepped out on stage. I heard the first two gunshots, but by the strange noise they made in the air I could tell they missed and you had our villain. But then I heard the other bungled shots from a different pistol, rather carelessly loaded, and so I dropped to the ground with sham injuries, in the hopes that Benigan would, in the irrational, passionate fervor of murder, come to gloat over his victim. Fortunately, he did step up on stage, but he was too quick – he soon regained his senses and managed to escape us. Finally, I was able to corner him in that washerwoman's alley, and using my whip I lashed into his wrist just as he was about to shoot at me, and knocked the pistol from his hand. It was then that you rounded the corner, considerably winded for a man your size, and congratulated me."

"This was one of the more unusual cases I have worked on with you," I noted.

"Not really, Watson. I have worked on many a great deal stranger than this, and I expect to come upon many even more outlandish in the future. That is what makes the business so exciting and unpredictable."

Reflecting upon my friend's last statement, I returned to write all he had told me in my journal, when out of the blue I heard a quiet little tap on the front door.

"Get that, will you?" Holmes asked impatiently. "Unless it is something extremely critical or dangerous, tell them I am busy – I would rather finish this book, you know."

I nodded and went to the door, never liking the business of turning clients away. Therefore I was pleased and surprised to find Miss Burgess on the doorstep, with another fair, and somewhat larger young lady on her arm – Miss Ainsley, I supposed.

"Miss Burgess," I said hospitably. "Come in, please! Who is your guest?"

"This is my cousin Margaret," Miss Burgess verified, introducing us. "Is Mr. Holmes in – "

"I certainly am in, Miss Burgess; forgive my slovenly appearance, but I am only an indolent bachelor, as you know, and my ways are irreparable," Holmes declared, coming up behind me with his book in hand.

"We do not intend to stay long," Miss Burgess explained. "Margaret was released from hospital yesterday, and we are on our way to catch a train."

"I'm sure it is much happier than the train you last caught," Miss Ainsley said in a soft, pleasant voice. "We can never repay you for your wonderful services."

"I don't expect you to," Holmes replied bluntly.

"It is all thanks to you my dear father is safe," Miss Burgess said, beaming. "He was positively glowing with praises of you, and he says he owes his life to you. I must admit, I felt so confident when you and Dr. Watson were on the case. And I was confirmed!"

"Which train are you planning to board?" I asked.

The young ladies looked at each other for a moment before Miss Ainsley answered, "We are returning home to Bristol."

"Whatever for?" Holmes and I protested.

Miss Burgess looked very grave, and rather older when she said, "If we have learned anything in all this, it is to be shrewd in our doings. We have only just turned twenty, and we are a great deal more naïve than either of us first thought. My cousin and I shall return to Bristol, continuing our artistic studies, mind you, until we feel ready to undertake an adventure again. Then we shall come back to London, and hopefully we will still be considered welcome visitors here on Baker Street."

"Most assuredly," I said earnestly. But Sherlock Holmes remained solemn.

"You have had a poor experience," he told them seriously. "But you must not base your opinions of either the city or its people on what you have been through – the good always accompanies the bad. Nor must you think that it was your innocence that caused the crime. That would be giving Mr. Lawrence far too much tribute, don't you think?"

"True," Miss Burgess replied, "but you must agree, Mr. Holmes, everything that my cousin and I ever thought of our guardian was completely mistaken. Our preconceptions of his kindness and generosity, our assurance of his goodwill toward ourselves and our family – all were blatantly shattered before us."

"Ah," Holmes conceded, "you are right. This is all too true; nearly always in crime, and so often in life!"

Miss Burgess nodded, with a not unwise expression on her youthful face. Then she and Miss Ainsley, with many pretty and gracious thanks, bid us good-bye, and to remember them while they were in Bristol. Soon they gathered up their colorful skirts, climbed into the carriage which was waiting for them, and disappeared down the slick, foggy lamp-lit streets.

I shut the door behind them, rubbing my hands from the cold winter air, and had returned to the study and my writings, when I found Sherlock Holmes had abandoned the story he'd been so engrossed with. Instead, he had picked up his violin and was quietly strumming it. As I sat down to record this rather sentimental conclusion of our singular mystery, I couldn't help but notice an unusually pensive expression on his shrewd, perceptive face.


End file.
